


What We Do in the After

by apricotozier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Armageddon, Book Elements, Crowley is a Softie, Gen, Insecure Crowley, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21733456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricotozier/pseuds/apricotozier
Summary: Crowley looked over at what had been creation. A sort of post-existence, Time after Time itself had died. Or something equally as overdramatic, probably. The Creation seemed oblivious to its near-end only a few hours ago, and the clouds continued to grumble along in the angry sort of way they tended to on October days. And it shouldn’t have scared him. He would never admit that it did. He didn’t want to think about it. It felt like this day might go on forever if he didn’t do something.Or: Its Sunday. The first day of the rest of Crowley's life, and he really would just like to find his glasses.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, implied
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	What We Do in the After

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my English Literature A Level coursework. I have no idea if I'm allowed to post it, but the grades have already been calculated, so, hopefully it won't cause any trouble. The idea was to try and write something emulating Terry and Neil's style, so I analysed the methods really closely and went slightly crazy over it, but hopefully it's done that? At this point I can't tell anymore, I've been looking at it for too long. 10 Mateo points if you can work out which chapter I based the beginning on, and which prophecy My prophecy is based on.
> 
> Sidenote: I'm pitifully rubbish at formatting things on here, so I'll hopefully come back later and sort it out if there are any major issues. Enjoy!

Crowley looked over at what had been creation. A sort of post-existence, Time after Time itself had died. Or something equally as overdramatic, probably.

It was Sunday, the first day of the rest of the world, around four twenty-five. The Creation seemed oblivious to its near-end only a few hours ago, and the clouds continued to grumble along in the angry sort of way they tended to on October days. Crowley turned his head away from the window and hummed, half listening to The Witch-girl’s ramblings. He blinked, carefully adjusted his wings.

‘Sorry. What did you say?’

He hoped he sounded polite, but really he felt as though his head had been filled with cotton wool - if demons felt that sort of thing – and he didn’t fancy putting much effort into such a trivial thing as politeness. The Witch-girl sighed and pushed up her glasses. That was a thought: where had he left his?

‘What are we supposed to do with this?’

Ah. So she felt it too then. The strangeness of carrying on in the After. Crowley stood, felt like he was imitating himself as he walked over to the windowsill. Not there. Where did he last have them? ‘Have you seen my glasses? I’m sure I left them here.’

Anathema, whose patience was growing rather thin, looked at him with a sort of pitying stare. With a sigh, Crowley ran a hand over his face. There was an ache in the back of his eyes. ‘Aren’t you the one with the prophecies?’ He hadn’t meant to say it with such malice, but his whole body felt strung tight. ‘Sorry,’

Outside, it started to rain. That hadn’t been forecast, in fact, it should’ve brightened up by half past. Perhaps the world had noticed, and this was its revenge. Rain.

‘They’re in the kitchen, I think. On the work top.’

‘Ah.’ Feeling uncoordinated and clumsy – a rarity for him, though everything seemed to be different now – Crowley sat back down on the sofa. He closed his eyes, willed the ache away. Thought of fire, and opened them again. ‘The Witch-finder boy said that there were more. They’d come in the post.’

‘Newt.’ She prompted, and pulled a large black book from her bag. ‘Yes, actually, but they don’t make much sense,’ She placed it on the coffee table.

‘No. No I don’t suppose they would.’

There was a silence, then. Not so much comfortable as contemplative. They probably thought of The End, and the stretch of time in front of them with no stopper – how Crowley hadn’t wanted things to be different, but it seemed that in the absence of change, there was an almost unbearable continuation. Most likely, he thought about why the Heaven his glasses were in the kitchen. He was sure he hadn’t put them there.

‘Have you spoken to your Angel?’ Anathema said, though she didn’t turn to face him, just fiddled with the end of her scarf. It was unusual for her to be anything but assertive. Something else new, he supposed, now that the world had carried on.

‘My Angel?’

‘Aziraphale.’

‘Right. Yes.’ Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate.

‘And?’ The thing about Anathema Device, is that she was far too inquisitive.

He didn’t look at her, though he could feel her stare. ‘We had lunch.’

‘Crowley —’

Something in him released itself, then. Hot like hellfire, and it shouldn’t have scared him. He would never admit that it did. He didn’t want to think about it. Would really just have liked to find his _blasted_ glasses. It felt like this day might go on forever if he didn’t do _something._

‘I just don’t see how this can make sense. How everything can be exactly the same. I don’t _feel_ the same.’ He didn’t feel as evil. Wondered if he ever really was. ‘This is how it was supposed to happen, right? How He planned it. I was never supposed to be like the others. So, so if you think about it sensibly, why put me there in the first place?’

  
Anathema didn’t really have an answer to that, it seemed. She adjusted her glasses and sat up a little bit straighter, like she might comfort him. She fell short.

‘Aziraphale says its ‘ineffable’, this _plan_. That we should just wait and it’ll all work out in the end. But for Heaven’s sake –’ For Satan’s sake, is what he meant to say. He wondered if that might get him into trouble; slip ups like that weren’t taken lightly. Wondered if it really mattered now, whose ‘side’ he was on. ‘For _somebody’s_ sake. What am I supposed to do until then?’

You might expect there to have been a flash of lightning then, at least a grumble of thunder. Instead, the rain against the window continued in its pathetic drizzle, and the book of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies fell from the coffee table as if it were a perfectly ordinary occurrence.* A page fluttered listlessly onto the rug, blank save for a hastily scribbled sentence at the top.

**1\. When the crimson skyes turn grey, then ye must not choofe between life and war, but stand with the Eastern wynd, for the truth cometh when Blacke and Lighte are one.**

*If you like, imagine it did so by itself. It probably did, to anyone who wasn’t looking carefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can check out my BTS and Umbrella Academy fics if you like, and you can find me on twitter @klausatsign Bye for now!


End file.
